Ororo and T'Challa in Zola
by NWHS
Summary: This fic picks up seven years after "Raising Lilith." The twins are in the second-grade and learning how to best deal with being the children of two powerful parents. Zola, their protector, tells their story.
1. Chapter 1: Nobody's Angels

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Babylon 5 had an episode entitled, "A View from the Gallery." In this episode, the story was told from the perspective of two unknown characters. I thought it an interesting concept and decided to write a story using that style, framing the point of view of the royal family from an outsider's vantage point. Here is that story, continuing seven years after "Raising Lilith."

**ZOLA**

Blessed silence, Zola thought, her eyes scanning the spaciously illuminated classroom, her mind forming a mental barrier between herself and the eighteen stressed children in the room.

The second-graders were fifteen minutes into an algebra test. Their hearts pulsed and minds blared with mathematical images, sending jolts of nervous energy through Zora. So much emotional energy the mental wall she'd trained so hard to learn how to create and fortify, was her only defense.

She shook her head, legs parted, hands behind her back, back and shoulders erect, eyes alert, the perfect warrior's stance for this type of assignment.

Zola glanced at her charges, one in the front of the room, the other two rows to the right and in the back. They looked like angels, their calm, sweet faces smiling, bodies erect in the uncomfortable wooden chairs, hands clasped over their finished exam, eyes facing the head of the class.

Zola almost laughed. N'Dare and T'Chaka were no angels. Sure, they put on a good show for the adults around them. As far as their grandmother Ramonda was concerned, the twins could do no wrong. But Zola knew otherwise. Those twins, with their baby faces, infectious laughter, and sugary sweet voices could charm the devil himself while invading his sanctuary on the back of the Panther God.

And they were hers to protect. She was their shadow, their Ohene Aniwa.

Ohene Aniwa meant "the eyes of the king." This ancient Wakandan symbol was steeped in their proud history. The design magically etched on the king's left leg, representing vigilance, protection, security, and excellence. And Zola was to be all of those things for the Prince and Princess of Wakanda.

Two years ago, Queen Ororo had made the request of her. And request it was, not a command, or a royal dictate. Zola smiled at the memory, she was but a girl of nineteen, trained since the age of thirteen to serve as one of the queen's personal guards.

The brainchild of the king, the Ohene Aniwa were to be the queen's guards, answerable first to Queen Ororo, then to King T'Challa, and finally to Shuri, the Black Panther.

And Zola, like twenty other Wakandans, were personally selected by Queen Ororo, young girls and women. Even then it was a request, homes visited, parents talked to, decisions mutually made.

The queen, as Zola soon discovered, had no interest in pressing a girl into unwanted or obligatory service to the crown. No, the queen was much more modern in her thinking, most Wakandans unfamiliar and uncomfortable with the notion of a representative democracy. And while Wakanda was most assuredly not a democratic state per se, that didn't prevent the foreign-born queen from instituting democratic practices.

So she came to Zola's home, met with her and her parents, and discussed her future. By the end of the month, Zola was enrolled in a private school the likes she'd never experienced in her sheltered life.

Yes, typical subjects like technology, math, science, and history were taught. But so were hand-to-hand combat, meditation, cooperative discipline, weaponry, and the like. Yet the most astonishing aspect of Zola's new life were the classes on harnessing, controlling, and using one's mutant abilities.

Wakanda, like many nations, had an almost nonexistent mutant population. Yet every member of the queen's guard were mutants, a fact all their families had kept hidden from general knowledge. Yet, the royal family had known, tracked the youngest of them down, and made an offer many of them, like Zola, couldn't refuse. An opportunity to stop hiding in the shadows, afraid of being condemned or ostracized for their uniqueness, the bigoted attitudes against the queen during the time of the Desturi still fresh in many Wakandan mutant's minds. Even after all these years.

And train and learn she did, Queen Ororo taking an active role in the mutant studies herself, earning unbridled loyalty and respect from her Ohene Aniwa. She was formidable, not simply in her mutant abilities, but in strength of character.

Zola had seen, had the privilege of traveling with her abroad. She was well known, well read, well liked, and totally committed to all her causes. Be it mutant rights, African debt relief, or Wakandan prosperity.

She was a queen for sure, but not one who sat on the throne waiting for others to do for her. No, she eschewed such superior notions, toiling beside the common man and woman, seeing herself as one of them, knowing and understanding hardships.

And if Zola sounded like she was in awe of her queen, that was because she was. Her first encounter with the American born Kenyan princess was the day of the king's fateful plane crash. The crash and the subsequent downward spiral of Wakanda still felt today.

Zola was but a mere child in a sea of other elementary school children invited out to hear the queen speak. She was beautiful, sincere, and articulate. But that wasn't what Zola remembered most about the queen that day. No, it was the look of abject fear on her face when King T'Challa's burning plane came barreling through the clouds. Then those haunted blue eyes shifted into something more amazing, blazing white determination.

That was the last thing Zola saw before Queen Ororo took to the skies, her intention to save her husband clear, her winds fast, but not swifter than gravity's cruel pull.

T'Chaka began to shift restlessly in his chair, Zola's eyes moving to him, watching the boy carefully as he fidgeted, fingers and feet beginning a silent tapping.

Mrs. Bantu raised a gray arched eyebrow, her fierce disapproving look stalling T'Chaka's barely contained cadence.

The other children were still testing, but the twins had finished their exam only seven minutes into the thirty minutes Mrs. Bantu had allotted. This was typical, all too typical, Zola thought.

The twins were bored, and Panther God help all around them when they were bored. But Zola also knew that they had far too much respect for school and their parents to get into trouble here. No, they would do that later.

Zola slowly lowered her shields, catching stray emotions from the twins. She was right; they were bored and restless, combined with a fair amount of frustration. Mrs. Bantu, for her part, was also frustrated with a shilling of anger thrown in.

Yeah, Zola knew that as well. The elderly teacher didn't particularly care for the idea of having a human sentry in her classroom, watching her every move and reporting all to the king and queen, as she so often complained, in front of the twins no less.

Yeah, she was a highly opinionated and conservative woman whose weathered grandmotherly features hid a forked tongue and a nationalist heart.

But her feelings ran deeper still, the woman ignorant of Zola's empathic abilities. And it was this mutant ability combined with Zola's youth and light-hearted demeanor that Queen Ororo most valued when selecting a guard for her children.

"I'm not qualified to serve as the primary protector of the twins, your highness," Zola had said when Ororo had first approached her. "There are others who are longer and better trained and who possess a more powerful ability than being a mere empath."

The queen had smiled indulgently, the way she always did when Zola or one of the other girls couldn't see what was apparently so obvious to Ororo.

Ororo had patted her shoulder, her long elegant fingers gentle but firm, Zola's last thought before Ororo sent her flying across the matted training room.

Stunned, Zola stood, knowing what her queen was trying to do. The young warrior smiled, the other guards formed a circle around the two women, their gazes locked on the center, primed for the battle to come.

Ororo twisted her hair in a loose knot at the back of her neck, her form fitting black and white spandex pants and sports bra matching those that Zola and the other guards wore.

The American press had taken to calling them "Storm Watchers." Apparently, Ohene Aniwa not catchy enough for those Americans who lived by sound bites alone.

But Zola secretly enjoyed the title. They were indeed the queen's honored watchers, and while many of them found it difficult to think of her as anything other than Queen Ororo, she'd asked them to refer to her as Storm. And in this place where they trained and worked as equals, she had become Storm to them.

And that very same Storm had beckoned her on, taunted Zola with her confidence, dared the young warrior to prove her wrong. The queen . . . Storm was rarely wrong. Not in these things, not when it came to her children's health and well-being.

Then Zola did what she had been trained to do, meant to do. She dropped her mental barriers and opened her senses. A flood of emotions crashed over her, threatened to swallow her whole, drown her in their massive weight. But she pushed back against the unrelenting tide, breaking off parts of herself, mental hands reached out, divided, cataloged, sifted, and discarded.

The wave of emotional energy ebbed, her vision crystallized, and she had read the pulses, knew who they belonged to, deciphered each heart, each intention, each soul.

"Who's a threat, Zola?" Storm asked, pointing to the women flanking them.

Zola thumbed through the array of emotions like she would a cabinet crammed with dusty manila folders, methodically pulling out and reviewing each one, careful of psychological paper cuts.

She shook her head. "No one here, Storm."

"One floor up, Zola. Who's a threat?"

She'd closed her eyes, concentrated, and then responded, "No one."

"The palace?" Storm walked toward her, bare feet silent against the mat. "Find the threat, Zola."

The palace was nearly a mile away. She'd been working on her distance, but Storm had never asked her to sense danger more than half a mile away. Could she do it? The warm tide of support from her sisters and the queen said she could, the heat of their confidence in her shored up the lingering reservations.

Opening her senses even more, Zola envisioned the distance between the training facility and the palace. Sweat beaded her brow and her head throbbed from the effort. The black fog of endless emotions gripped her then, attempted to overwhelm her, cast her mind into desolate insanity. But she'd held fast, Storm's soft whispers of assurances sliced through her mind, bringing bright rays of light.

Then she saw herself, hovering above the ugly swirling swill of raging emotions, a rainbow after a storm. And from her perch, Zola went to work, sorting, sorting, sorting, until all that remained were two wretched pulse points of malignant energy.

"The chef's new apprentice and," Zola opened her eyes, anger burning her soul, "the twins' nanny."

Storm nodded before a thin smile formed. "Shuri has already seen to those two."

Zola should've known, the queen would never gamble with the lives of her children. Meaning her choice of Zola as their personal protector was no gamble at all, but a wise decision made by a mother and queen.

"The twins' first day of kindergarten is tomorrow, be at the palace by 7:30 a.m. They're both very excited about having you as their protector."

Storm laughed then. "They have no idea you have the ability to read their emotions. They think you're just a sweet, fun guard who laughs at all their silly jokes and is far too young to care or know what they are about."

Zola almost laughed then, too. At the queen's absolutely correct presumption that Zola would consent to the reassignment and the pairing of an empath with two rambunctious five-year olds.

"Now," Storm said, her devilish blue eyes twinkled before she attempted to sweep Zola's legs out from under her, the young warrior catching her emotional intention just in time, flipping back and away from the attack. "Very good, Zola. Let's see how well you can read the emotions of multiple enemies while under fire."

"W-what," she'd stammered, a second before her queen chuckled with knowing pride, snapped her fingers, and sent five of Storm's best warriors after her.

"Time's up," Mrs. Bantu said, drawing Zola's mind back to the classroom and her impatient charges. "Pass the exams to the front and no talking," she warned when the relieved seven-year olds began a light chatter.

Zola lowered her mental shields for just a minute, enjoying the emotional satisfaction that always followed when the students accomplished a task, their hearts swelling with pride and confidence.

Smiling at the glowing, radiant faces of the second-graders, Zola did a quick mental scan of the school's grounds. Satisfied nothing unusual was amiss; she raised her shields and returned her attention to the class at large only to find Mrs. Bantu lining the children up by the back door.

Zola glanced at the clock. It was almost eleven o'clock, time for the children's daily recess.

Mrs. Bantu unlatched the solid, metal door that led to the common playground that all classrooms exited onto, letting in the sweltering heat of the spring day.

Anxious to be away from the confines of the stale classroom, the children began to make their way toward the door promising freedom, N'Dare the line leader.

But the child didn't move, even when Mrs. Bantu walked past her and gestured for the princess to follow. N'Dare peered outside then shook her head.

Agitated, Mrs. Bantu said, "Come, N'Dare, you're holding up the line. Your classmates would like to take advantage of the beautiful day."

N'Dare stared out of the door, her eyes flitting to the clear, blue sky, and Zola recognized that look. It was the same look she'd seen on Ororo's face when she was considering her next move.

Like mother like daughter, she thought.

"It's going to rain, Mrs. Bantu."

The teacher's eyes went heavenward to the cloudless sky, but the eyes that returned to N'Dare were cast in gray annoyance.

"A child as smart as you are, N'Dare, can surely see that there isn't a rain cloud in the sky."

Zola took a step forward, not liking the mocking tone the older woman had taken toward her charge.

"Now, come," Mrs. Bantu said, using her fingers to signal that she wanted her students to follow her lead.

Mrs. Bantu fully exited the room, and turned to see that not only had N'Dare not followed, the other children made a solid, unmoving wall behind the princess, T'Chaka at the end, his face hard and impassive.

"It's not going to rain," she huffed, her wrinkled hands going to her ample hips.

"It will rain very soon, Mrs. Bantu," N'Dare insisted. "I can feel it in the air. My mother always told me to trust what I feel." N'Dare took a step away from the opened door. "It's going to thunder, maybe even some lightning."

The children looked from N'Dare to the bright afternoon sky, still not a rain cloud in sight.

"Are you sure?" N'Dare's best friend Tamasha asked.

N'Dare nodded. "We'll get soaked if we go out there."

"I don't want my hair to get wet," one of the other girl's exclaimed.

"I don't mind the rain," one of the boy's said, "but if I come home with mud on my shoes again, my mother will . . ." He paused, thinking. "I don't know what she'll do but she makes the strangest faces when I track mud in the house."

There were other grumbles from the students, each one moving away from the opened door like it was a demon tempting them into villainy, and returned to their assigned seats.

T'Chaka now stood beside his sister, his face still unreadable.

"If you don't mind me _now_, children," Mrs. Bantu started, her voice going shrill and cold, "I'll call each one of your parents and let them know how disobedient you've been today. All of this is nonsense. There isn't a cloud in the sky."

Before Zola could intervene to calm the woman down, T'Chaka said, "You may want to listen to my sister. If she says it will rain, then it will rain. N'Dare is never wrong."

Mrs. Bantu huffed, her anger flaring, the mask she donned so well slipping. "Just because she is a princess and the daughter of a weather _mutant __witch,_ doesn't make her all-knowing. Perhaps you think I should bow down and kiss her feet like the goddess people stupidly believed your mother to be. What does a tiny, white haired, blue-eyed child know of such things, anyway."

It wasn't a question, but a foul, bigoted statement from a woman who had lost whatever it was that had once made her Teacher of the Year, holding a National Board Certification, a distinction that gave her the honor and privilege of teaching in any school system in the nation of Wakanda.

But that was long ago, the snarling woman on the other side of the metal door had just crossed the line, Zola's desire to ram her arrogant head up her wide, drooping ass a tempting urge.

Done with Mrs. Bantu and her no longer veiled contempt for the king and queen's children, Zola made to remove her charges from the classroom, contact the palace and the principal, and wait for the king and queen to arrive.

Before she could do any of those things however, thunder rattled the windows, followed by lightning skidding across the sky. Large droplets of rain began to fall, hitting grass, swings, and jungle gym with heavy sighs.

Mrs. Bantu's eyes widened and she made for the opened door. As she reached out her hand, the door violently shut and the lights began to flicker on and off.

Zola ran to the door, tried the knob. It was locked; the key normally in the lock was gone, and so was T'Chaka. She moved to the windows, but they too were locked, safety bolts on to keep intruders away from the children.

Then she heard it, a loud careening sound. It was coming from Mrs. Bantu. The children ran to the windows, pulling up venetian blinds and peering outside, the spring day now awash in murky darkness.

And in the middle of the rapid winds and hurling rain was a drenched Mrs. Bantu, the storm strangely focused on her.

Zola quickly scanned the circle of enraptured, unsympathetic children, and found N'Dare. The child's eyes were a frightening white, hair now loose from her danty pony tails, an invisible wind lifting the strands, curling them about her head as if she had an electrical shock to her senses.

And gone was the angelic look from earlier. No, there was nothing sweet or innocent about the princess now. She was good and mad, and Zola didn't need to be an empath to have figured that out.

And where in the hell had T'Chaka gotten off to? Queen Ororo was going to have her ass, Zola thought.

"Stay here," she commanded of the children, before quickly running next door.

Zola moved swiftly to the room beside Mrs. Bantu's and went straight for the back door. It too was locked, no key visible.

"Where is the key, Mr. Degbe?"

"I don't know. It was there a moment ago," he said, his face a mask of middle age confusion.

Not waiting for what else the man may have had to say, Zola ran down the hall, charging into classroom after classroom after classroom. All with the same result, all the keys that unlocked the back doors leading to the playground were mysteriously missing.

"The blur took it," a kindergartner had said when Zola reached the last door on that level.

A blur?

Yeah, she knew that blur, a small, grim-faced blur with the speed of Hermes, the intellect of a genius king, and the protective spirit of a black panther.

She should've seen it coming, should've stepped in when she sensed the twins' anger rising to the fore. But they'd always managed to maintain their control, their parents taking great pains to teach them. But she hadn't anticipated Mrs. Bantu's cruel stupidity. Now she was paying for it, not Zola just yet, but Mrs. Bantu.

Returning to the classroom, the first thing Zola heard was ragged thumping on the back door, fists slamming into unrelenting metal, squeals of fear coming from the other side.

"Release her from your storm, N'Dare."

"No, Zola," the child cried. "She hates mutants. She hates my mother for being a mutant. And she hates me and T'Chaka because we are mutants, because she doesn't think we're true Wakandans."

Damn, the child was right. What in the hell could she say to that?

"And would you hurt everyone who hates, N'Dare? Is that how your parents taught you to deal with narrow-minded people like your teacher?"

The child shook her head, angry but also rational, her father's daughter.

"She's mean," N'Dare whispered, the booming background thunder now silent, the pounding on the door an annoying, impatient melody, the children more interested in the conversation between Zola and N'Dare than their playground stranded teacher and her fight for entrance and away from the bolts of lightning crackling around her.

"T'Chaka overheard her talking about us and our family," N'Dare admitted, her eyes closing then opening, pain filling her blue eyes.

Zola wondered what exactly T'Chaka, with his enhanced hearing, had indeed overheard when Mrs. Bantu thought she was speaking in private. In truth, she really didn't want to know, she'd heard enough prejudiced comments about outsiders and mutants to last her two lifetimes. Unfortunately, the twins had as well, apparently, today's incident the grain that tipped the scales.

N'Dare sighed, her slim shoulders finally relaxing, her mass of untamed hair lay limp down her back, and she looked utterly lost. As if that little show of pre-pubescent power had sapped her of all strength.

Just then T'Chaka returned, his hands full of small silver keys. He tossed the lot of them on Mrs. Bantu's desk, his unrepentant eyes meeting Zola's. The _she __deserved __it_, clear in his steely brown orbs.

And what a frightening pair of hellion angels, the reason for her selection as their protector starkly clear.

Their protector? Zola laughed, grabbing up the key labeled Room 102. Inserting the key in the doorknob, she turned it to the right, pulled, and opened. On the other side was a very wet, very scared, very angry Mrs. Bantu.

She pushed her way inside, eyes trained on the twins' unflinching forms, and then those haunted light brown eyes sought out Zola. And the look within was all-knowing, a realization it had taken Zola two years to figure out, but a truth Mrs. Bantu now knew.

"You protect them, but who protects us from them?"

With a newfound understanding of the queen and her wily mind, Zola said simply, "I do."

Mrs. Bantu snorted before beginning to type on her desk laptop.

"You're not very good at your job, are you Storm Watcher?"

Zola shrugged. What could she say? The woman _did_ deserve it, but still, Zola needed to be better.

The principal came on the line, her imperial voice booming through the classroom, sending all the children flying to their seats before the screen with her face appeared behind the teacher's desk.

"I understand there's been an incident in your classroom, Mrs. Bantu," the principal said.

Mrs. Bantu smiled maliciously at the twins. "Yes, please contact King T'Challa and Queen Ororo. I think they would like to know exactly what their children have been up to while they've been gallivanting all over Africa, wasting Wakanda's minimal resources on worthless charities."

The principal frowned at the teacher's audacity, but her words were for Zola not Mrs. Bantu. "Zola, bring N'Dare and T'Chaka to my office. I'll contact the royal palace and arrange for a meeting with their parents."

Mrs. Bantu's vile smile brightened as Zola herded her charges out of the classroom.

T'Chaka laced his fingers through that of his sister's. They walked in silence, but Zola knew the twins were using their telepathic link to talk to one another.

Zola's senses were wide open and focused on the twins. They felt justified in their actions but also afraid. Afraid of how their parents would react, afraid of disappointing the king and queen, afraid of how easily their anger raged out of control and how much they'd relished in it.

All reasonable fears, as far as Zola was concerned.

The large door to the principal's office loomed before them, the twins hands still entwined, the hallway shortening with each purposeful stride.

The twins stopped just outside of the door.

"Are you going in with us?" T'Chaka asked.

"No, I'll wait for you out here." Zola hoped to intercept the king and queen before they met with the principal. She was sure Mrs. Bantu had already typed and e-mailed the discipline referral to the principal as soon as they'd left her room. No, Zola wanted an opportunity to plead the twins' case before Ororo and T'Challa met with Principal Shona.

"You're supposed to protect us, Zola," N'Dare said, a slight challenge in her tone.

Zola smiled graciously and gave them both her most stern look, the one her mother used to bestow on her when she'd done something naughty. "I'll tell you what your Aunt Shuri tells me every time we spar. 'If you're brave enough to step onto the mat, then be courageous enough to take your licks.'"

T'Chaka shook his head, dark brown features cool and assessing. "I've heard her say that, too, every time she chases us after finding us trying to poke holes in her vibranium panther suit. I'm convinced," he said, turning thoughtful, "there is something we can use to rip the thing in two."

He shook his head again, looking much older than his seven years, accepting his sister's complicit nod, the wheels of mischief churning in their diabolical minds.

Panther God help her, they were at it again, and they hadn't even made it into the principal's office yet.

Yet a moment later, they seemed to sober, gazing down the empty, solemn hallway.

Zola pushed her senses away from the children, down the hall, around the corner, and out onto the lawn. She sensed them as well, T'Chaka's "They're here," confirming what she'd already detected.

N'Dare pulled on Zola's arm, her tiny face looking up at her. "Are they mad, Zola?" Yeah, it had taken the twins all of six-months to figure out why their mother had selected her as their protector, and why so many of their "pranks" had fizzled before they began. Zola's "Don't even think about," "I wouldn't do that if I were you," and her all-time favorite, "You're giving me an aneurysm, so cut it out," were met with wide, analyzing eyes, that eventually morphed into overly keen observations. A mystery they soon solved.

Unable to lie to such wilting blue eyes, Zola nodded.

Apparently resigned to their fate, the twins clasped hands again, and walked away from Principal Shona's office and toward the sound of their parents. And the last thing Zola heard before the twins took their chatter telepathic was T'Chaka say, "We stood on the mat, now be must take our licks," and N'Dare respond, "Baba and Mother don't believe in spankings."

No, the king and queen had never laid a hand on their children in anything other than love. And while N'Dare and T'Chaka were intelligent beyond their years, they were still seven, given to taking language too literally. No, the kind of licks they would receive from their parents for their misbehavior wouldn't be the kind delivered to their rear. No, there were far more creative ways to teach a child a lesson, Zola a recipient of such "lessons," her Ohene Aniwa teachers masters of that particular discipline.

Zola sighed, the royal couple coming into view, their faces a blank mask. Yeah, she thought, the twins wouldn't be the only ones having to take their licks.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	2. Chapter 2: Hell Spawn

**Chapter 2: Hell Spawn**

**Part 1**

"This is so unfair!" N'Dare dropped her tiny load on her pink and yellow decorated canopy bed, untamed white hair spilled across a Hello Kitty pillow. Arm going across her eyes as if she was an eighteenth century British lady ready to swoon over her doomed fate, N'Dare cast a quick look at Zola before heaving a heavy, exaggerated sigh.

Zola rolled her eyes at the drama queen that was the Wakandan princess. How many times had she heard that exact complaint? Too many and the girl hadn't even reached puberty yet. Hell, she wasn't even a pre-teen or tween, or whatever the hell young girls labeled themselves as nowadays.

Zola squared her shoulders, leaning slightly against the bedroom door, wondering if she'd ever been as overly dramatic and pouty as N'Dare when she was her age.

Probably, she admitted with a mental shrug. Still, N'Dare should consider herself lucky, she and T'Chaka weren't suspended from school for their little bout of royal mischief. Principal Shona, a thirty-one year old who didn't believe in such an archaic and ineffective form of discipline, decided twenty hours of service learning would be a better option for the twins.

And while Zola was all for helping her fellow man and woman, she had absolutely no interest in spending the next five Saturdays listening to the twins complain about tutoring eighth graders in math and science. Worse, she'd have to put up with four pimply-faced teens angry and embarrassed because two seven-year olds knows more about algebra and chemistry than them.

Zola gave her own sigh, wishing she could swoon beside the disgruntled N'Dare.

Zola turned weary eyes to T'Chaka and said, "No computer," right as the boy had his had perched over the blinking blue button of his laptop. "No computer, no television, no video games, no science experiments."

She turned to N'Dare, the girl dwarfed by the full-sized four-poster bed, the all-white arched canopy adding a regal shadow to her side of the room—a bed for a true princess. "No dolls, no drawing or painting, no dancing or singing."

"N'Dare's right," T'Chaka huffed, sliding into his computer chair, eyes glued to the empty, black computer screen.

Zola almost laughed; the child looked like a ravenous lion with a hurt deer before him, a deer locked behind a close but impenetrable cage.

"This isn't fair. This is all Mrs. Bantu's fault. We can't do anything." T'Chaka crossed slim, brown arms over an even slender chest, covering the school's name—S'Yan Primary School for Advanced Studies— printed on his white and black uniform shirt, his matching black trousers swishing as he swung agitated legs back and forth.

She had a headache and the day wasn't even over yet. After meeting with Principal Shona, the ride from the school to the palace occurred in mind numbing silence. The twins, for once, knew when to shut up and make themselves as invisible as possible, which wasn't an easy task when they were squeezed between their parents in the limo, Zola sitting across from the family, doing her best to avoid the scrutinizing gaze of her queen.

And Zola wondered now, as she did in the limousine, if the king and queen's angry silence was worse than their vocal recriminations.

She looked at her charges, T'Chaka now in his bed, back propped against a solidly built oak headboard, a novel on space exploration in hand. N'Dare, obviously realizing her swoon and dramatics weren't exactly Oscar-worthy, had moved from her bed to the 15 x15 area of the room cordoned off for exercising. Zola couldn't help but smile at the girl, her black uniform skirt twisting in a most unladylike fashion as she moved through basic form three, her yellow Tae Kwon Do belt wrapped snugly around her waist.

And this was why Zola loved the twins so much. No matter how much trouble they got into, no matter how powerful their potential, no matter their off-the-charts IQs, they were good kids with strong, resilient personalities.

They were so different from each other, Zola thought, but so very much in tune with each other, linked in a way that their parents—thank the Panther God—understood all too well. Which was why, at seven, they still shared a room.

Admittedly, the room was spacious enough to accommodate two or three more children, an invisible line down the middle demarcating each side—bright, radiant colors for N'Dare, dark, strong colors for T'Chaka, complimentary even in their seeming opposition.

Yet the arrangement would soon come to an end; the difficult decision to separate the two loomed before the king and queen with each passing year. Zola knew they had put it off for the twins' sake, but they were getting to an age when they would need their privacy, the issue of gender being one that couldn't be ignored much longer.

And she wondered how they would cope, having always slept within arm's reach of the other, a door adjoining their room to that of their parents', a security they took for granted. They would still have that security, of course, but the inevitable separation would be an adjustment for them all—even Zola.

"How do you think it's going down there?" T'Chaka asked, raising his head from his book, vibrant brown eyes shrouded with concern.

N'Dare cut her kick short, bringing her leg back down to the floor, eyes flying to Zola, awaiting a response.

She had none that would satisfy them. Hell, she had none that would satisfy herself.

Zola pushed away from the door and moved more fully into the room, her long, lean legs strapped with sheathed weapons, her shoulder holster rubbing uncomfortably against her rib. She really needed to adjust the damn thing, but she ignored the discomfort, gesturing to the children.

They came and she bent down to their level, worried eyes peered back at her, innocence personified. They were indeed sweet. Devils on crack, but undeniably sweet.

She brushed back a sweaty lock from N'Dare's face, seeing a youthful Ororo in her baby blue eyes. And the child smiled at Zola, a front tooth missing causing her to also resemble a Jack-o-lantern.

"I don't know," Zola answered honestly, though she would soon find out. The queen had asked her to make sure the twins went directly to their room and to return to the council chamber once N'Dare and T'Chaka were settled. That was nearly twenty minutes ago, much longer than the task required. She was stalling, hiding out with the kids, avoiding the inevitable. Yeah, what kind of guardian was she? Too afraid to face her queen's wrath, afraid to see Ororo's disappointed eyes.

Damn, swooning looked better and better.

Zola gave them each a kiss on their foreheads and stood. "I have to meet with the king and queen then I'll return." _Maybe, __if t__he __queen __doesn__'__t __see __fit __to __reassign __me._ Zola kept that little ache of insecurity to herself, knowing she was lucky the incident hadn't been worse.

"We're sorry," the twins said in unison, the closing door echoing their apology.

**Part 2**

Cautiously, Zola entered the council chamber, the door guard stepping aside after getting permission from King T'Challa to admit her.

The room wasn't particularly large or even grand in appearance. It was surprisingly comfortable looking, a round mahogany table in the center of the room taking up much of the floor plan, surrounded by twelve or fifteen black leather chairs—one for each of the council members, the king and queen, and the Black Panther.

The room was bright and airy with artificial light, the window wall showing a gloomy evening sky, the rain clouds having decided to stick around for a while.

Zola glanced around, having never had the privilege of being in the very room where decisions for the nation were discussed, debated, and made. It was awe-inspiring in spite of the absolute normalcy of the room—simple and functional came to mind.

Flat screen televisions covered most of the remaining three walls, white labels next to each one noting not only the different time zones—London, New York, China—but the news channel to which it was set—CNN International, Wakanda Live, Al Jazeera. And while the perfectly polished center table was clear, Zola knew there was an individual flip top computer stored within the table for each member of the council, a simple push of a button giving the member access to secure Wakandan files.

Zola stood at attention, waiting to be acknowledged, not too ashamed to admit that she hoped none of the room's occupants would notice her presence.

"Have a seat, Zola," Ramonda said, then pointed to the chair to the Queen Mother's right.

_So __much __for __inconspicuous_. Zola sat, placed her hands on the table, and linked her fingers together, hoping to disguise the nervous tremor running through them.

Across from her sat the king and queen, and to Ramonda's left was Shuri, the Black Panther, though she wore no habit today, a simple pale blue skirt and matching form-fitting top, reminding Zola that Shuri was still a young woman, just shy of the thirty year mark. Yet she was formidable, and like N'Dare and T'Chaka, older than her years and deadlier than her appearance would warn.

Zola stole a quick glance at the royal family, all regal and composed in their bearing, all committed and highly capable individuals. And right at this moment, all talking at the same time. Zola couldn't keep the smile from forming.

_Like a real family._

And they were. Money, power, and politics aside, T'Challa, Ororo, Ramonda, N'Dare, and T'Chaka were a family like any other. They argued, they cried, they laughed, they loved.

Then there was Zola—here, among them, sitting to the right of the Queen Mother as if she was an equal member of their family. And at times, she felt as if she were, her own loving family notwithstanding.

"I think that principal was too hard on them."

"Too hard?" Shuri scoffed at her mother's kind, if not misplaced, sentiments concerning her grandchildren. "She's a soft-hearted new principal who best learn to take a firm hand with the children under her care before the twins or some other hyper active student destroys the damn school."

"You're one to talk about a firm hand and being hyper active." T'Challa gave his sister a knowing look. "How many times did Principal Ujima call about you, Shuri? And if I'm not mistaken, you were the one who started that fire in the girl's locker room. And," he said with a satisfied grin that only an older sibling had the power to deliver, "you were thirteen not seven."

Shuri glared at her brother, a smile hovering around the edges of her mouth. "I had no intention of starting that fire. I only—"

"Tried to hide evidence of smoking on school grounds," T'Challa finished with a smirk. "You know, little sister, a lit cigarette and a basket full of towels don't mix well. Or perhaps, in your case, they mixed too well."

T'Challa laughed, and Zola wanted to as well, Shuri's displeasure with her brother's attitude growing the longer the king mocked her.

"That's beside the point, T'Challa. Unlike you, I know how it is to get into trouble. And to have Mother sit here and basically absolve the twins of all blame is beyond unbelievable. Not when she took me to task for far less when I was their age."

"That was totally different and you know it, Shuri," Ramonda weakly defended. "You and the twins are nothing alike."

Shuri raised one perfectly arched eyebrow at her mother, and then gave her a devilish smile. "There we agree, N'Dare and T'Chaka are far worse than I ever was, and you"—another toothy grin—"have gotten soft in your old age. I heard about such a thing occurring when one became a grandparent, but I never thought I'd see the day when the iron-willed Queen Mother was defeated by hell spawns coated in sugary sweet brown sugar."

Hell spawns?

Zola turned to see how Ororo would react to her children being referred to as _hell spawns_.

Ororo simply shook her head and looked at her husband beseechingly, as if to say, _they__'__re y__our __family, __I __only __married __into __it._

"Let me see," Shuri said, warming to the idea that her niece and nephew were indeed escaped residents from the hot and fiery place. "They super glued my bathroom door shut. While I was inside taking a shower," she added with an arch of her other brow. "They declawed my best Panther suit. N'Dare painted the toenails of the Bast statues outside the palace gate pink because, according to our darling princess, 'pink is the new black.'"

That made Zola laugh, two ancient statues having survived the ravages of time, weather, even a Skrull invasion, couldn't survive a pink polish wielding Hello Kitty fangirl.

"Then it was the whole hacking into Interpol thing," Shuri continued. "Talk about an international incident. Why you insist on giving T'Chaka access to our encrypted computers I'll never understand, big brother."

Shuri opened her mouth to continue, but Ororo stayed her next words with a wave of one manicured hand. "Enough, Shuri, I believe we all get your point. And while, the hell spawn bit was over the top, I think all of us at this table can agree that the twins are . . ." Ororo seemed to grope for the right word to describe her dastardly duo, and everyone, including Zola, waited, mouths closed, to see exactly how the Queen of Wakanda would describe the children she fought so hard to bring into the world. Finally, she huffed, and said, "Creative."

Creative? Well, hell, that was one way of putting it. Another would be hell spawn.

T'Challa repeated his wife's word, then they all broke into laughter, Zola knowing full well the extent of the twins' _creativity_.

And as quickly as the laughter began was as swiftly as it died down, the reality of what the kids had done today not lost on their family members.

Ororo turned to Zola then, eyes suddenly serious, laugh tears drying. "T'Challa and I read the referral report written by Mrs. Bantu, Zola, and we've heard the children's account of what happened. But we have yet to hear your report. We would like to hear it now, if you would."

Four sets of eyes peered expectantly at the young guard. Clearing her throat, Zola began, the details of her report not so very different from the children's.

"And what do you know of Mrs. Bantu?" the king asked. Not _think_ of Mrs. Bantu, but _know_ of her. Two different questions, one required an opinion based on mere observation, the other required knowledge based on the use of her mutant ability. She wasn't simply a guard with knives strapped to her thighs and a gun locked and loaded, but an empath. King T'Challa's question was for the empath not the weapon-wearing protector.

"The twins are quite right in their assessment of Mrs. Bantu. She doesn't like or trust mutants. She especially dislikes," she looked at Ororo . . . Storm then, anger rimming her heart, "the queen. She blames mutants and outsiders for the downfall of Wakanda. Mrs. Bantu can't see past her own prejudices when it comes to the twins."

Anger and hurt flared in the eyes of the king and queen.

"Principal Shona needs to be made aware of this, demand her resignation." The Queen Mother's wrinkled hands balled into fists, her mouth set in a determined, rigid line. "I never liked that woman, even when Shuri had her as a teacher. She knows her subject matter, for sure, but she lacks warmth and patience."

"She definitely wasn't the warm and fuzzy type," Shuri admitted, her gold earrings dangling down her ears, twirling about her long, elegant neck. "But she was kind, accepting, and fair. It seems she's no longer any of those things."

"Her two oldest boys aligned themselves with the Desturi. One is now dead, the other in prison for the next twenty years." Ororo's words were softly spoken. "I'd hoped . . . well, I'd hoped we could learn to get past such debilitating divisions.

T'Challa placed a reassuring hand over his wife's. "We decided . . . we all decided," he said, Zola knowing he referred to not only the three of them in the room but the council as well, "not to treat the family members of the treasoness Desturi as if they were traitors as well. We have no idea how much, if at all, they sympathized with their family members. It would be unfair and unjust to treat them like criminals, especially when we're trying so hard to rebuild the trust of our countrymen and women."

And that right there was what made the triumvirate, as T'Challa, Ororo, and Shuri have come to be known, such a powerful national and international force. Individually and collectively, they harness tremendous power, have the ability to subjugate unmercifully their citizens and the weaker nations surrounding Wakanda, if that was their will. But it is their sense of justice and morality that guides them, prevents them from seeing and treating others—like Mrs. Bantu— as mere vassals to their lordships.

If Mrs. Bantu would simply take her prejudiced head out of her overwrought ass, she would recognize all the good they have done in the years since Doom and the Desturi, especially the queen who returned to a nation and a throne out of love for Wakanda's son. A love that extended to the people—all people—even undeserving ones like the Bantu family and their ilk.

"Perhaps we should have . . ." began Ororo, clearly thinking over what she'd been about to say, her husband's hand moving to her shoulder, his embrace gentle and loving.

"We made the right decision, Ororo, even if it doesn't feel like that now. While it is within our power to do so, it would be an abuse of said power for us to condemn those like Mrs. Bantu simply because of the Desturi connection. She's a bitter woman who lost one child to the grave and other to a cold, unforgiving prison. She refuses to blame them, so she blames us instead. But others do not, beloved. Even her own daughter works in our on-site engineering lab, and she is as much a trusted friend of the family as our Zola here."

_Our Zola._

She grinned like a stupid, lovestruck teen, blushing at her king's kind words. So maybe they weren't as upset with her as she'd thought.

"How long have you known about Mrs. Bantu?" The question from her queen put an abrupt halt to her childish blushing.

"Ah, well, since the second week of school."

"And what week of school is it now, Zola?"

Okay, perhaps the queen was upset with her performance because Ororo damn sure knew exactly how many days and weeks the kids were into the school year.

"Ten weeks, my queen."

"Ten weeks," Ororo repeated, eyes narrowing on Zola. "An eight week difference. And why did Mrs. Bantu's discriminatory attitude toward the children never appear in your daily reports?"

Yeah, why indeed?

"Because I didn't view her as a threat." _Because I thought I could handle an old woman and two small kids without running to my queen like a green junior guard._ "She's grumpy every day. Not just to T'Chaka and N'Dare but to all of the kids." _As if that makes it better. That just makes her an equal opportunity hard ass. "_You know, she's just a real bit—

She swallowed her tongue, realizing it was doing nothing but getting her further and further into trouble, her queen appearing none-too-pleased with her response.

"Mrs. Bantu _is_ a bitch, Ororo," Shuri said. "Even you have to see that. Don't get mad at Zola for stating the obvious."

Ramonda huffed at her daughter's intrusion and use of language. "With a mouth like that, the twins won't have to watch American television to have a gutter mouth."

"Anyway," king T'Challa said, drawing Zola's attention away from the arguing mother and daughter, "Ororo's point, Zola, is that it isn't up to you to decide if a bit of information is important or not. When we ask for a daily report, we expect a complete report, no matter how mundane the facts may seem to you. What you viewed as harmless, grumpy, old lady behavior, we would've seen it for what is truly was—an escalating pattern of anger and disgruntlement aimed at the twins."

Right, and Zola could see that now, too. She felt like shit, eyes dropping from the king's, unable to hold his gaze, refusing to meet the adamant blue eyes of her queen.

"Don't do that, Zola," Ororo said, her voice suddenly commanding. "Today was unfortunate, one from which we will all learn, but don't you dare hang your head in shame—not in front of us or any other. We didn't bring you in here to lay blame at your young, but very capable feet. When it comes to N'Dare and T'Chaka, you deserve a place at this table. T'Challa and I trust your opinion and respect your empathic ability as much as we trust Ramonda's and Shuri's perspective." Ororo gave her in-laws a disapproving look. "Even when one is ridiculously lenient and the other thinks my children are demons from hell."

Ororo turned towards her husband then, and asked with genuine dismay, "They aren't that bad, are they, T'Challa?"

The king ran a steady hand over his face before responding, the answer clear in the tight set of his shoulders. "If they didn't look like us, Ororo, I'd swear they were switched at birth and our real kids were out there somewhere waiting to be rescued."

Shuri laughed, rubbing her hands together before standing. "Well, since you two have already given birth to the children from Hades, I guess that leaves me free and clear to have quiet, uneventful kids who won't find any humor in switching chocolates at a birthday party with laxatives. Although," she said with a chuckle, making her way to the door, "it was damn funny, all those seven-year olds trying to use the bathroom at once, the parents giving the hostess the evil eye, thinking the woman's questionable cooking skills to be the culprit."

Shuri laughed again. "And those twins of yours just sat at the table, eating as much cake and ice cream as they pleased, looking for all the world to be the spitting image of angels on high. If that's not a hell spawn then I don't know what is. Thank the Panther God they're family, or I'd have to kill them," she said with another laugh, softly closing the door behind her.

Well, that was a new one on Zola. She hadn't heard about the party incident, and apparently, based on the shocked faces of their parents, neither had the king and queen.

Taking a deep breath, they gathered their composure, managing a simple shake of the head, the Queen Mother discreetly slipping from the room.

Zola lowered her barriers and focused on Ramonda. The woman was worried and in a hurry. Then Zola remembered N'Dare gifting her grandmother with a small box of chocolates yesterday. At the time Zola thought it a sweet gesture, as did Ramonda, now, in light of Shuri's story, the "gift" took on an entirely different meaning.

Definitely hell spawns. What kind of children prank their own grandmother?

"They're only seven, Ororo," T'Challa said. "They'll stop all of this nonsense the older they get." His words were meant to reassure his wife, Zola could tell that, but the king's voice held more hope than conviction.

Yeah, Zola wasn't convinced either. Well, for the time being, and for better or for worst, she had job security. Panther God help them all and Ramonda if she'd consumed any of N'Dare's special "chocolates."

The king and queen stood, T'Challa pulling out his wife's chair before saying, "Please bring T'Chaka and N'Dare to the private garden. We'd like to have a word with them."

Without another word, fingers entwined with their mate's, they exited, leaving Zola in an empty council chamber.

Zola turned toward the bulletproof window wall, noticing that the rain had finally stopped and the sun was slowly reemerging, praying that was a good sign for the twins.

After hearing about some of their more "creative" escapades, Zola didn't hold out hope that the sun would melt the frost she'd detected in the king's tone and the queen's taut face.

Zola stood, readjusted the gun biting into her rib, and made her way to the door. It was time to retrieve her charges. After all, hell spawns weren't invincible, not even ones dipped in irresistible chocolate.

**TO BE CONCLUDED**


	3. Chapter 3: Private Garden

**Chapter 3: Private Garden**

N'Dare and T'Chaka walked solemnly in front of Zola, hearts raging in their tiny chests, emotions open like an ancient Egyptian tomb and easy to decipher. And while she hated to see them so afraid of what was to come . . . the unknown parental judgment that awaited them, Zola was more afraid of what they could grow into if they didn't learn to master themselves.

By the time she'd returned to the twins' bedchamber, they had removed their wrinkled school uniform and replaced them with more comfortable afterschool gear.

T'Chaka wore a simple dark blue, short-sleeved athletic shirt with matching long pants and spotless black Nike running shoes. N'Dare, for her part, still wore her orange Taekwondo belt, but completed the ensemble with an all-white, heavy, kick snapping cotton gi, feet covered in, of course, a suede pair of pink and white "barefoot" sports sneakers with a Velcro Z strap closure.

Suitably attired for a walk in the garden or a tumble on training mats, Zola marched her charges out of their room, down the winding hall and staircase, and out to their mother's private garden. Which, the three of them now stood in front of, the children having stopped just shy of the entrance.

"This place is forbidden to us." N'Dare glanced up at Zola, beautiful blue eyes sharp and intelligent. "Did you know that, Zola?"

Zola nodded. The entire enclosure was surrounded by twenty-five feet high, thickly green shrubs, that gave the appearance of a dense rainforest dropped in the middle of civilization, but was in truth nothing more than an elaborate privacy fence with invisible sensors.

Yet what Zola found most interesting about the private garden was its lack of discreet security cameras, an unfortunate staple of post Desturi life in and around the royal compound. As much as the triumvirate promoted positive, open relations with the citizens of Wakanda, rebuilt the economy after the theft of the cache of vibranium, restructured the country's military, and introduced the most democratic regime the small African nation has ever known, they were a shrewd and cautious threesome.

Unknown to all except the most trusted few—the Ohene Aniwa, the Dora Milage, and the Royal Council—video and audio devices populated key locations throughout Wakanda. No, the triumvirate would take no more chances; they'd lost too much, suffered personal and political defeat, forced to question self and others, yet emerged from the darkness stronger and wiser for it.

Wakanda was no longer what it had been for thousands of years; it could never be that again. But it was more, different but better in many ways; their rulers making it so. In this, Zola trusted; in them, she believed.

And so the queen's private garden was one of the rare locations on the royal compound free of cameras, the queen its only honored guest. And, of course, the king, who'd designed the garden himself, overseeing the entire project down to each blade of grass and blossoming petal.

Palace gossip was that King T'Challa initiated the project upon his return from his lengthy sojourn to New York City's Hell's Kitchen , a place Zola heard much about, but one the queen refused to take her to whenever she accompanied Ororo on one of her many visits to her grandparents' home in the same state. Apparently, it had taken three months before the king was satisfied with the results, pushing himself and his hand-selected crew to their limit.

And, of course, there was more gossip that followed. Like the two months the king had spent in Kenya before returning with his queen, many in Wakanda having concluded—with both of their extended absences in different locales—that the short marriage had come to an end.

No one really knew what transpired while the king was in Kenya, but it was clear that whatever happened, the union of the two was stronger and better for it, as was the state of the nation.

Now the twins and Zola waited patiently on the outside of the garden, a stone path leading from the small temple of Bast, which only the royal family used, was a simple but exquisite marker, its blue and gold octagon cut stones standing out against the lushness of the green grass, linking the two.

And Zola remembered the stoned path well, for she'd traveled it more than once in search of her queen. But it was the first search that was most memorable, the training game dubbed "Where in Wakanda is Storm?" her more difficult empathic challenge.

But it wasn't only Zola who was trained in this "game," but all the Ohene Aniwa. At anytime, anywhere, under extreme circumstances, Storm's watchers must be able to track, locate, and if necessary, rescue their queen. And it wasn't enough to use Wakanda's finest technology to do so. No, the queen insisted on them using all within their arsenal, maximizing every advantage, leaving nothing to chance.

And by that she meant their mutant ability. An ability many of the guards initially shunned, but have grown to value, appreciate, even love, under the queen's insistent yet empowering tutelage.

So they trained, working individually and collectively, honing their skills, feeling proud, prepared, deadly.

"Where in Wakanda is Storm, Zola? It's your turn to locate the queen."

Zola sat on the mat of the training room, still breathing hard from her sparring match with Wanjiru, the highest-ranking Ohene Aniwa. Taking a hand towel to her sweaty face, Zola looked up at the petite woman, her diminutive stature a fool's gamble. The woman was as lethal as a viper, her unassuming size and pretty, delicate features disarmed many, an underestimation they soon regretted. Zola had never been so foolish, the graceful pixie with bubbling brown eyes and an infectious laugh would sooner take a blade to your throat as wish you a good day.

"I'm exhausted, Wanjiru, besides," Zola had complained, dropping fully on to the mat, her legs feeling like jelly, "I hate that game. Storm can block me." Zola gestured to Nia beside her, the girl also breathing deeply, Wanjiru having taken on both of them, at the same time. The woman was a tiny fighting machine. "Telepaths like Nia here and an empath like me always get the least honorable scores on this training. Anyone trying to get into her head, Storm can block. How in the hell do you expect me to use my powers to find the queen?"

Wanjiru had frowned down at her, Zola too tired and beat up to care that she'd just argued with her commanding officer, the woman's rank giving her the power to speak for the queen in Storm's absence.

Like a viper going in for the kill, Wanjiru was on Zola, her pretty pixie face a snarl of indignation, her voice low and dangerous. "You will find our queen. You will use the power the Panther God has blessed you with, and you will locate Queen Ororo. This is your mission, Zola, you will not shirk it, you will not run away, you will not give up without even trying."

Wanjiru pushed herself off of Zola's chest, where she'd been straddling her, the force of her legs and words keeping the young guard bolted to the mat.

Standing over top of Zola, Wanjiru's eyes were now a deep shade of disappointing brown. "Storm would find you, Zola, no matter the difficulty, no matter the danger. We protect her, but she also protects us. If you can't do that, then by all means, stay where you are, on your back, showing the enemy your belly."

Wanjiru was a hard woman to like, Zola had thought as she pulled herself from the mat, shame weighing her down. Wanjiru was a hard woman to please. Zola walked around the warrior, unable to meet her gaze. Wanjiru was the best of Ohene Aniwa, and Zola, having exited the training facility in search of her queen, knew she had a lot of growing up to do if she ever hoped to be as good as Wanjiru.

An hour later and Zola stood outside of the queen's private garden, inordinately pleased with how swiftly she'd been able to track down Storm. The queen's unique electrical current, which Zola used to tap into the queen's mutant pulse, was strong and wide open. It had never been this easy before, and Zola thanked the Panther God for her good luck. No one had ever tracked Storm so quickly. Even the great Wanjiru, with her canine senses, had only managed a time of ninety minutes.

And here Zola was, thirty minutes under her commanding officer's boastful time. She grinned—big and wide—thinking about how many training points she would receive for this coup.

But all wasn't won yet; she had yet to breech the private garden and "save" the queen. But first she had to make sure the pulse she'd been tracking for the last hour was indeed Storm's and not one of Wanjiru's many diversionary tricks.

Opening her senses to full capacity, Zola sent out a wave of empathic energy, searching for the queen's answering energy. And she'd found it. _Oh, hell no_. Stumbling back, Zola tried to shut down her power, quickly erect the mental barrier before the queen felt the invasion, knew what she had done.

Too late.

_I'm so fuc-_

A blast of arctic psy hit Zola, throwing her to the ground, every neuron in her brain shivering under the psychic shield, the defensive attack from the queen quick and immediate.

Then Zola heard it, like a cackle of hungry hyenas.

Laughter. Lots and lots of laughter.

Then they appeared. Her sisters. Her friends. Trained, deadly women, looking more like college girls on spring break than the queen's royal guards.

And heading the group was, of course, Wanjiru, her pixie face alight with humor.

God, she really did dislike that woman.

"Did you think it would be that easy to beat my record, Zola?" Wanjiru stepped closer, extended a hand, and Zola, reluctantly, took the offer, her head just beginning to thaw. "You did a good job, but honestly, you should've known better. The queen would never make it that easy on you. Hell, she makes nothing easy for any of us; that's why we're the best."

Zola struggled to make sense of it all, pushing past the psychic pain. "Apparently, the queen didn't organize this little session, Wanjiru, you did."

The woman had the audacity to not only laugh but to look so unrepentant that Zola wanted to scoop her tiny body up and slam her face first onto the ground. But common sense and self-preservation stilled her twitchy limbs.

"If you're going to serve as the prince and princess' primary protector, you have to know what you'll be in for. They are hell in booties. They'll do far worse to you and everyone else if you aren't careful. They're deceptive, highly intelligent, and silver tongued—unassuming but deadly.

Like Wanjiru, Zola thought, finally comprehending the true nature of the training session.

"So this wasn't about finding the queen?"

Wanjiru shook her head. "Not exactly. But it was fun." Wanjiru leaned in closer, so close that her words were clearly only meant for Zola's ears. "It's true, telepaths and empaths have no chance of locating the queen by using only their mutant powers. She just isn't wired that way, something about her own mutant powers." Wanjiru had shrugged as if she couldn't quite explain it herself.

"But I found her. She is in there."

"Foolish, young, naive Zola, you just discovered what I learned three years ago. There is only one thing that distracts the queen so completely that she lowers her mental guards enough to be tracked telepathically."

Yeah, Zola had gotten that point. And she so did not need that particular sexual emotional blowback.

_Like that time I walked in on mom and dad. Damn, parents really need to lock their doors._

"Sex with the king," she'd said, mortified at her intrusion and horrified at the thought that those sensually graphic emotional pulses were now permanently burned in her psyche. How could she ever face her king and queen again without turning an interesting shade of _damn the queen's lucky_ red?

"Exactly." Wanjiru laughed. "No one else is allowed in her sanctuary, just him, only ever him." Wanjiru slapped Zola on her back, the woman's sense of humor not at all funny. "God, Zola, you have to be the only one of us who didn't know how the king and queen spend the two hours between council meetings."

Wanjiru looked back at the private garden. "Not always here, of course, but it's a nice, warm, sunny day so I took a chance." She laughed again, renewing Zola's hatred at being the youngest of Storm's guards. "Damn, Zola, the thunder claps should've been a clue."

Now that was said loud enough for everyone to hear, the riotous laughter starting anew.

Lightning crackled, loud, hard bursts and they froze, including the obnoxious Wanjiru, for that was no lightning of passion.

The sky grayed over, storm clouds moved in, blocking the mid-day sun. Instinctively, they all looked up, and released a collective gasp.

Thunder boomed around them, lightning split a tree, sending branches hissing to the ground. Then she was there, a cape of white hair whipping in the wind, her red silk dress a vicious beacon of light in the frightful sky, glowing white eyes focused on . . . Wanjiru.

Then the commanding officer was gone, a cold windy hand having snatched her from beside the empath, the chill of the gust knocking Zola to the ground. And never in her young life had Zola been so grateful not to be the eldest.

And as much as she loved and respected her queen, vying for her attention the way they all did, Zola, for once, was pleased not to be in Storm's sights, the target of her attention. No, that dubious honor would be all Wanjiru's. And Zola, like the other relieved guards, turned their back, and with no remorse, left their commanding officer to fend for herself. Sisterhood be damned.

With barely a whoosh, an improbable vine-covered door slid open a fraction, and Zola wondered, not for the first time, how the king had crafted such a technological wonder, one that seemed to be intimately linked to his wife's mutant abilities. For short of a fire or a severe explosion, there was no delicate way of gaining entrance to the private garden. The king had planned well, his gift perfect in its design, a symbol to the nation that Ororo, Princess of Kenya, an outsider, a mutant, was truly a daughter of Wakanda as much as T'Challa was its son.

Zola watched as the twins took tentative steps, soft, small feet crossing the threshold of the garden, a warm gust of air closing the door behind them. She smiled at their timid hesitation, nothing of the hell raisers she knew them to be visible in the presence of their parents.

And there they were, sitting beside each other on a bench, a man-made pond with languorously swimming koi fish circumnavigating their oval home a few feet away, blue, white, red, black, and yellow fish, resembling living jewels.

Zola quickly took in her queen's sanctuary, seeing why Ororo spent so much time in this place. In was indeed glorious, a flower lovers paradise. Besides three canopy benches surrounding the pond, a Hexagonal gazebo with mosquito netting, and a chic guesthouse style cabana, the spacious area was divided into smaller sections, each one dedicated to one or more type of flower. Roses. Heathers. Violets. A riot of colors and smells vied for dominance, Zola's limited knowledge of horticulture obvious in the light of such decadent flora.

Then there were the plants, green and healthy with new buds, thriving under the queen's care, her ability to commune with them not general knowledge. But one Zola could appreciate, for Ororo took the same care with her Ohene Aniwa, especially the youngest among them. Yet it was her children who she shone most of her light on, the ones that were hovering about Zola's legs, knowing they'd finally pushed their parents too far.

"Come." With that solitary command from their father, the twins peeled themselves from Zola's legs and crossed the twenty feet to their parents.

Hanging back and knowing the twins were safe with their parents, Zola moved to the bench on the other side of the pond, giving the family some semblance of privacy. If they wanted to her leave, Ororo would told her to do so. The fact that she hadn't done so meant that whatever the king and queen had been discussing before they came in, was meant for her as well.

Great. Just great. Where was the annoying pixie wannabe when Zola needed her?

The twins sat at their parents' feet, their little eyes looking up at them.

"We're sorry," T'Chaka said, his voice soft but it didn't quake.

"Are you really?"

"Yes, Baba, we are."

"What are you two sorry about, son?"

T'Chaka, the boy genius with all the answers, looked to his sister for a clue. Seeing she had none, he shrugged and said, "We got into trouble at school. We're not supposed to so we're sorry."

T'Challa's gaze hardened even more when he said, "Not good enough, son. Not nearly good enough." Those brown orbs turned on N'Dare who sat cross-legged, legs nervously shaking up and down. "What do you have to say for yourself, N'Dare, or do you think to allow your brother to stand alone?"

"Of course not, Baba," the girl said with quiet ferocity, her father intentionally pricking her pride. "I . . . well, Mrs. Bantu insulted Mother."

"And that made you mad?" Ororo asked, already knowing the answer, for N'Dare's fuse was shorter than the child's chubby pinkie finger.

"Yes."

"And you think that justifies your actions?" Ororo didn't wait for an answer. "You could have killed that woman, N'Dare, with your lightning. We've talked about this, about what we are, what we can do. But more importantly," unexpectedly, Ororo stood, her winds gently lifting N'Dare with her, bringing them face-to-face, "what we can never become."

Zola sat up straighter, knowing the truth of Ororo's words but cringing at the stern tone she'd taken with her daughter. Although Zola knew Ororo would never hurt her child, and that this was undoubtedly a lesson long overdue, she couldn't help but sympathize with the little demon with the angel face.

Then there was T'Chaka who'd risen to his feet with his father's stern prodding.

"I saw the footage from the hallway, T'Chaka."

The boy looked down, taking a sudden interest in his running shoes, fingers, the grass, anything but his father's glowering face.

"You think yourself a panther, son?"

"No, Baba."

"I think you do, T'Chaka. I think you believe yourself faster than the quickest antelope, the swiftest of predators."

"No, Baba." The boy shoved his hands in his pockets, twisting with discomfort.

"Show me."

The child looked up; his eyes alight with confusion. "Show you what, Baba?"

"How fast you are. Show me." T'Challa pointed to the other end of the garden, nearly a hundred feet away. "Show me how fast a black panther can run."

Withdrawing his hands from his pockets, T'Chaka's face transformed, the challenge dimming the fear. And off he went, the blur at his best.

Then another blur, a bigger, swifter one followed. Zola blinked, once, twice, maybe three times, and T'Challa was ahead of his son, T'Chaka ramming into him, the child bouncing off his father's solid chest, falling onto the ground, a heap of skinny limbs and bruised pride.

"Again," T'Challa roared. "Show me, T'Chaka. Show me your panther."

The boy dusted himself off and was off again, running in the opposite direction, his breath heavy, steps still light and swift.

Then he was slamming into his father again, T'Challa an impenetrable, moving wall.

"That's not fair."

"Don't complain, son, beat me. Show me your claws."

Hitting his balled fists against the prickly grass, T'Chaka stood again, sighted down his father, and with the speed of Hermes, took off, zig zagging, trying to make it to the east quadrant before his father.

No luck. Slam.

"That's not fair," the young prince wailed, his cool calm finally breaking.

"What's not fair, T'Chaka?"

"You're bigger and stronger than me, Baba. I can't beat you."

"Why not?" the king asked, helping his son to his feet. "Everything in me is in you, all my speed, my heightened sense of smell, hearing, and taste. And on top of all that, your mother's genes have spiked each and every one of those Panther God given attributes."

King T'Challa dusted off his son's dirty jeans, swatted him lightly on the bottom, and commanded, "Now run, show me."

And the child ran, up an back, up and back, up and back. Until the blur was no more, until he ran no faster, moved no more gracefully than an aging, overweight tortoise.

Out of breath, T'Chaka collapsed, reminding Zola of how she'd felt every time she sparred Wanjiru.

"Have you had enough little panther?"

T'Chaka peered up at his kneeling father and nodded.

"Now answer my question, son. Why are you sorry?"

T'Challa waited, moving from his knees to his bottom, and then to his back, mirroring his son's exhausted posture on the grass.

T'Chaka slid closer to his father, and Zola strained to see and hear, so caught up in what was going on with the father and son, she'd basically missed when Ororo lifted herself and N'Dare into the sky, leaving the males of their family behind.

"I'm sorry because Mrs. Bantu was prey I should've left alone. Not because she's a woman, or old as Wakanda, but because of who I am, what I can do, who I want to be."

"And who do you want to be, son?"

"A man. A protector. A King." T'Chaka turned to his side, facing his father. "I was a bully today, wasn't I, Baba?"

"Yes."

"And real men aren't bullies, are they?"

"No they aren't, T'Chaka."

"Real men don't let pride and anger make decisions for them, do they?"

T'Challa shook his head, then pulled his son to him, sitting up, cradling the child in his lap.

"But that doesn't mean that a real man never make mistakes. We do, T'Chaka, and I've made my share of them. A king isn't infallible, a protector doesn't always win, and a man can be humbled by his own errors in judgment."

"I think," T'Chaka said sheepishly, "that I've had a lot of errors in judgment."

"I believe you are right, son, but you are, after all, only seven. Certain errors can be excused; others are not so easily dismissed. Today with Mrs. Bantu is one of those times."

The king kissed the top of his son's head. "And while I love that you and your sister work together, support one another, it's no good pooling powerful resources for the wrong cause. Sometimes, son, it's the stronger man who can pull back instead of plunging forward. And an even wiser man who knows when to tug his sister from the edge instead of helping her go over it, possibly destroying them both."

"I understand."

"I thought you would."

T'Chaka snuggled in closer, the back of his head going to his father's sturdy chest, his eyes lifting upward.

"What is Mother doing to N'Dare up there?"

The king's eyes also traveled skyward, a grin blooming on his handsome face. "Just be happy that I was the one to teach you your lesson and not your mother."

"Believe me, I am. Why do you think we never prank Mother?"

"Because she's the big bad wolf and will blow your house down."

Zola laughed, knowing the truth in the king's words. And then she was airborne, the security of the garden floor shrinking the farther away she moved, the bun she'd meticulously wrapped her braids in disentangling, falling about her shocked shoulders.

She was soaring, without the aid of a plane or hovercraft, Ororo's steady winds the only thing preventing a plummet to her death. Zola really hated heights, suddenly feeling guilty about taking so much pleasure when Ororo did this to Wanjiru. Payback was truly a bitch—a cold wind snapping bitch.

"Glad you could join us, Zola."

_As if I had a choice._

She brought her next to N'Dare, who Zola knew had absolutely no fear of being hundreds—she looked down—thousands of feet in the air. The girl was born to soar with the eagles, Zola, on the other hand, was not, and wanted nothing more than to be set free from this horror show.

She sighed, giving in to whatever the queen had in mind. Whoever said the king's bark was more vicious than the queen's bite was a damn liar, or perhaps a brain dead fool.

"Do you know how old I was, little one, when I came into my mutant powers?" Storm asked without preamble.

The princess shook her head, her own eyes gone white, although Zola was pretty sure she wasn't using any of her mutant abilities.

"Twelve. I was twelve, N'Dare. Just a kid."

That made sense; Zola had come into her powers two weeks after her thirteenth birthday. The other royal guards had similar experiences. Puberty seeming to awaken the sleeping X gene.

But then there was N'Dare . . .

Storm widened the gap between them, forming a triangle, her winds holding them all aloft, steady and secure.

"I was alone at the time, N'Dare. I had friends, true, even a mentor of sorts, but I was essentially alone."

N'Dare nodded and so did Zola. They both knew, everyone knew the queen was orphaned at the tender age of six, parents killed violently, no bodies, no tombstones, only a child's heartache, a woman's claustrophobia.

"And you know what I did to survive back then."

"You stole. You were taught to master all types of locks, and you stole from those who had far more than you."

"And do you think that made it right, N'Dare? To use my skill to take from others?"

The child seemed to give her mother's question considerable thought, and Zola did as well, wondering if she would've been able to survive such a horrible fate, her parents forever ripped from her. An only child left to the mercy of a cruel world. She shuddered at the revolting thought.

"If you were hungry, or hurt, or in need of a safe place to sleep, then yes. You had nothing, Mother, you did what you had to do to survive."

"But stealing is wrong."

"But a village that fails to protect its children is even worse. Baba says, in Wakanda, there are no orphans, because all children are wanted, all children are cared for, all children are loved."

"He is correct, but not every place is Wakanda, my sweet, and not every adult is like your father."

Storm widened the triangle even more, making Zola very nervous.

"And so if it's acceptable to steal for survival, when is it acceptable for us to use our mutant powers?"

"Whenever we want, it's our power; no one can take it from us."

Ororo shook her head, then turned those creepy white eyes toward Zola.

"What's the answer, Zola?"

Hell, when did this interrogation shift to her? Sometimes she really hated this assignment, the queen treating her like . . . well, her daughter, if she'd become a teenage mother at seventeen—Ororo's thirty-eight to Zola's twenty-one.

Not knowing what Storm wanted to hear, and yeah, she was definitely Storm right now, the queen having disappeared along with the sight of the garden, Zola said the first thing that came to her mind. "As infrequently as possible."

"Disappointing," she said, before catapulting them through the sky, the wind cold and biting.

Zola tried to open her eyes, searching the rushing landscape for N'Dare. And there she was, next to her mother, unafraid of the height or speed. Then they stopped, came to a careening halt.

"If I released Zola, N'Dare, would you be able to catch her, take her to safety."

"W-what," Zola squeaked, unable to believe her ears.

Storm ignored her.

"Would you?"

Zola's head whipped to N'Dare, her face grim and ashen with fear. She understood the feeling.

N'Dare turned those white eyes to her, squinting, and looking far too intense. Arms raised and hands opened, pointed in Zola's direction. Those eyes squinted even more, and her mouth began to move, but no words made it past her mother's winds.

"I can't."

"Why not? Zola is your friend, your protector. You want to use your powers whenever and however you see fit. Then use it now, send Zola back to the garden, she doesn't like the way we play."

Play? She'd be damned if this was play. More like an aerial training session no other Ohene Aniwa ever had to take. She was so going to get mad points for this, and shove it right down arrogant Wanjiru's throat. That was, if she survived.

"I can't," the princess yelled over the howling winds.

A fierce reply of "Why not?" crashed into them both, sending the three of them higher at a G-force Zola didn't even want to think about.

Gasping for breath, the child finally stammered out, "Because I'm not strong enough. Because I can't control the weather the way you can. Because I could hurt Zola or myself."

The howling winds slowed and settled; the sudden silence eerie.

"Now, little one, tell me why you are sorry." Storm's voice was as calm and gentle as her winds.

N'Dare swallowed hard and so did Zola, for she prayed the child would get the right answer this time. The child was stubborn as hell, but she'd met her match in Ororo.

Storm brought her daughter closer to her, close enough to stroke the white hair that matched hers, loving fingers pushing untamed bangs out of the child's eyes, a downy softness entering her voice. "Tell me why, sweetheart."

"Like you said, I could've killed her. I didn't think about it, didn't try to do anything more than scare her. But I wanted to hurt her, make her feel some of my pain, know that mutants are not evil, but people with feelings and hearts."

"And did you accomplish your goal, N'Dare? Do you feel vindicated?"

"No, I feel that I proved her right, that mutants are nothing more than out-of-control monsters."

"We can be monsters, little one, if we choose that path. That's the very thing I fight against, my child, within myself and others. I never want you to know the kind of pain that burns one's heart when anger and vengeance is taken too far, whether at seven or seventy-seven, the taint never leaves the soul, never allows you to forget."

N'Dare reached out her tiny arms, encircling her mother's waist, burying her face in Storm's mid-section.

"I don't want to become a monster."

Storm stroked the child's wavy white hair. "You won't, little one, I won't allow it. But you're so young, N'Dare, you and T'Chaka both, too young to have the powers that you do. Your father and I understand. As difficult as it was for me to come to terms with who and what I am when I was but a girl of twelve, it must be doubly hard for you and your brother at only seven. And while maturity and mastery will come in time, you must be made to understand now."

Ororo lifted N'Dare's head, making sure the girl's eyes were on her. "Another day like today will not be tolerated. I will not have you or T'Chaka abusing your powers, giving in to anger because you feel entitled, taking matters into your own hands instead of allowing Zola to do her job or telling your father and me so we can do ours."

A kiss to the forehead followed by more sage words. "At times, N'Dare, I stole because I was hungry, because I needed clothes or medicine to survive. But not always. Sometimes I did it because I could, because I was the best, because I thought I was invincible. And while stealing for survival may be the right act at the time, it isn't something one should make a habit of. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

If the child didn't, Zola did.

"You're saying that sometimes people do the wrong things when they're desperate, when it's their life or their death."

"And were you desperate today, N'Dare? Did you feel mortally threatened by Mrs. Bantu? Or should you have simply decided that it wasn't a battle worth fighting?"

"I was in no danger, Mother. I could have handled it differently; I didn't have to hurt her, frighten her."

"Very good. So back to my earlier question. When is it acceptable for us to use our mutant powers?"

"Whenever we want, as long as we use it cautiously and for the protection of ourselves and others."

Not a complete answer, Zola thought, but a very good one, and the queen seemed pleased. As least she did before she turned her glowing white eyes Zola's way.

"And you, Zola the Empath. What am I to do with a protector too afraid to fully use her powers?"

"What do you mean, my queen?"

Ororo's eyebrows shot straight up, even little N'Dare shook her head at her, clearly having figured out her error before Zola did.

"Did you really think I would put your life in the hands of a seven-year old?"

"Well, I—"

"While it's true that you can't probe my mind deeply, you're strong enough to pick up my residual emotional pulses; you've done it before. Did it even once occur to you to try to read my emotions while I was so focused on my daughter?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Did you forget that you also have the power to tamp down more volatile emotions like anger and hurt with calm, soothing ones like happiness and contentment? You could've used those same powers on Mrs. Bantu or the twins today."

"Well . . ." Shit, how had this happened to her again? Damn the queen and her unexpected interrogations.

"Did you really think I didn't know how you managed to best Wanjiru after fifty straight losses?" Amazingly, the queen laughed then, and Zola began to relax. "She still doesn't know what happened to her, one minute she had you nearly pinned, the next you'd bested her, all her natural canine fighting spirit momentarily stripped to the core, leaving behind a silly, tamed kitten."

She chuckled again and began their descent, N'Dare having managed to climb on to her mother's back, enjoying the ride back down to ground zero.

"If she ever found out, Wanjiru would have your—"

Ororo didn't finish, not with tiny, alert ears listening to every word that came from Ororo's mouth.

Yeah, but Zola got the point. Wanjiru would have her ass if she ever found out.

They landed safely in the garden, Zola never so happy to feel solid ground under her as she was at that very moment, the urge to drop to her knees and kiss it a nearly uncontrollable pull.

N'Dare jumped from her mother's back and joined T'Chaka on the west side of the garden, the girl none the worse for wear. And by the looks of the princess, Zola would swear the hell spawn actually liked the aerial roller coaster ride. And to confirm what she thought to be true, Zola heard N'Dare delightfully squeal to T'Chaka, "We were up so high and went so fast. It was as scary as Uncle Logan when he goes a week without shaving, but it was the best flight she's ever taken me on. And you missed it!"

Zola rolled her eyes. _Panther God save me from weather controlling mutants._

King T'Challa lay reclining lazily on the bench the queen had snatched her from only twenty minutes ago. God, had it only been twenty minutes?

Now she was the one to say, "That's not fair. Please don't ever do that to me again."

To Zola's dismay, the queen made no promises. Instead, she said, "I'll be traveling to Kenya where I'll meet with the leaders from South Africa, Zaire, Niganda, as well as Kenya. They wish to begin trade negotiations with Wakanda but have no history of working peaceably together."

"We all agreed to keep our bodyguards to a minimal, an attempt at good will, if not outright stupidity. But for the sake of honorable foreign relations, I can't have the Ohene Aniwa at my back, no I'll bring only two of you."

"Me?"

"Of course you my tepid empath, who better to have by my side than a protector who can not only alert me to danger, but calm the more ruffled feathers of pompous diplomats?"

"And your second?"

This time it was the king who laughed.

"Wanjiru."

Hell no, not the militant pixie. Zola wanted to whine, complain, argue, but of course, she did none of those things. She'd already tired the patience of her queen enough today, she wouldn't risk being whisked back into the sky for another lesson.

"Wanjiru," the king chimed in, "is ideal for all the obvious reasons. She looks as harmless as a fly. Men are so taken by her petite frame and obvious beauty that they stumble over themselves, letting down their guards without even realizing. By the time they've realized what fools they are, she's absconded with whatever she's been tasked to find or destroy. And the best part— the king laughed again—"they're too embarrassed to admit that a five foot nothing of a woman has bested them."

The king stood and wrapped his arm around his wife's waist. "And you, Zola, with all the weapons you like to wear, no one will dare look twice at my wife. They'll be too busy making sure they don't say something untoward, forcing you to withdraw that cannon you're so fond of.

What was it with everybody ripping on her gun? Admittedly, no other royal guard carried such a menacing weapon, but a girl could never be too careful, her mother always said.

"How long before we depart?"

"Three days," the queen answered, her attention slowly shifting to the king and whatever it was he was doing to her waist, causing a nice rosy blush to form.

Yeah, it was time for Zola to leave, but she had one more question.

"Who'll serve as primary to the prince and princess while we are away?"

"Nia, she's already their second, and will make a perfect temporary primary. She'll keep them honest, and help them make the transition with their new teacher."

"New teacher?" Zola had forgotten all about Mrs. Bantu, assuming the woman had sufficiently lied her away out of trouble. Perhaps not.

"She'll be taking early retirement." Ororo looked at her gold and diamond watch. "It began, oh, when was it, T'Challa?"

"The moment she took it into her head to humiliate and insult our daughter."

"Oh, yes, that's right, beloved, now I remember."

"I believe Shuri saw to the details. I think I even heard her whistling a little tune when she called Mrs. Bantu to inform her that her services would no longer be required. You know, my love," the king said, nuzzling his wife's neck, the two of them in their own world, Zola slowly slipping away from them, "she's a Black Panther who takes her job quite seriously. But all joking aside, Principal Shona has recieved numerous parent complaints about Mrs. Bantu's unprofessional treatment of their children. Like Zola said, she treats all the children poorly, but she especially dislikes mutant children. It's sad really, she truly once was an exemplar educator."

Zola took one last glance behind her, the twins running about their mother's garden, chasing each other, laughter billowing in the warm evening air. Then she chanced one last look at her king and queen, T'Challa's arms fully around his wife, her back to his chest, his right hand slowly circling Ororo's stomach, softly spoken words whispered into her ear, ripping a girlish giggle from the queen.

Zola smiled at the little but mighty family, realizing that not all rumors were false. The queen hadn't trained in hand-to-hand combat with her guards in nearly six weeks.

There was speculation that after nearly eight years the queen was yet again with child. And the way the king was proudly stroking his wife's belly, Zola now found truth in the rumors. But she knew it would be at least another month before the announcement would be made, Wakandan tradition taking a more cautious approach to pregnancy than Westerners.

No, the royal couple would wait, the first trimester the most dangerous for the child, the time when miscarriages were undeniably common. And the queen would be spending most of the next month away from home, with only Zola and Wanjiru to care for her and the unborn.

She wouldn't fail her . . . fail them. She was Ohene Aniwa, a Storm Watcher, and she would return the queen safely to her family.

Zola waited for the sensors, then she felt the pressure of the door unlocking. She walked through it, the gate sliding back into place, no evidence that it even existed, the king and queen and their prince and princess, secure within their private garden.


End file.
